


Hellhound

by thewayshedreamed



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, MAAS Sarah J. - Works
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, NESSIAN AU, Panic Attack, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewayshedreamed/pseuds/thewayshedreamed
Summary: Modern auNesta has a panic attack at a fundraiser, and Cassian intervenes.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Hellhound

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is inspired some by my own experiences with anxiety and panic attacks. I found some of it hard to articulate, so I hope it comes through cohesively!
> 
> Warnings for depictions of anxiety and panic attack.

She knew better than to force herself through this event. She knew from the second she awoke that morning that it would be one of the dark days; one where her guard would stay in place and her senses would work overtime. She could almost feel the scales tipping under the weight of her cortisol levels, and she mentally prepared herself for a day of fending off that invisible, crippling hellhound.

Nesta had spent years in pursuit of true mental wellness, battling against it like the most worthy of adversaries. It had taken her quite some time to realize mental wellness was less of a destination and more of a continuum. There were days where she didn’t have to work at it quite so consciously, and those days were her favorite days. Those were the ones that justified every penny and moment she’d invested in herself over the years. 

However, the days like today, they were the ones that threatened to break her. These were the days of no true antecedent to her anxiety, leaving her to speculate on her hormones, dreams she may not remember, or the current phase of the moon. Generalized anxiety was a bitch in that way— it could be triggered by anything or nothing at all. 

Her work day was simple enough; nothing happening that was truly noteworthy. Nesta found herself on edge regardless, irritable and sensitive. She’d employed various strategies throughout the day to prevent lashing out at her colleagues, but she knew her rope was quickly fraying. Her office mate typed too loudly, the man in the next office whistled incessantly, and she bristled anytime another person dared speak to her. It didn’t matter how relevant or reasonable the conversation was— it was unwelcome today.

The presentation of her symptoms had led her astray for a very long time. She assumed herself to be an asshole; one that managed to camouflage it better some days better than others. It wasn’t until her therapist talked to her about how idiosyncratic symptoms of anxiety could be that Nesta realized the beast with whom she would stay in perpetual battle. 

Ironically, it was never the big things that sent her spiraling. Delivering presentations at work was a non-issue. Mediating conflict with colleagues or family barely phased her. She was almost comforted by these larger issues, because if she were unsettled, it was seemingly justified and expected by the task at hand. No, it was always the little things. She could present a lengthy proposal to the firm, yet want to scream at the top of her lungs just afterward if she dropped her pen. The wind whipping tendrils of hair into her face while she tried to read a brief on a park bench at lunch could make her murderous. Her cardigan catching the door knob as she walked and jerking her backward? It could send her to the fucking moon. 

Which was why, walking into this fundraiser where she would be basically anonymous (with the exception of her friends and family) shouldn’t have set her off. She had attended dozens of these small events, and she never had a particularly negative experience at a single one of them. The nights usually consisted of her having a drink near her small group, snacking on hors d’oeuvres, laughing at some jokes, pledging money, and going home. 

This evening was hosted by Feyre and Rhysand in an attempt to raise funding for the arts in schools through their non-profit organization, and it was on the casual side compared to others. Nevertheless, her chest was tight, her breathing shallow, as she held her chin high and walked into the event room. Tonight may have been a night to cancel and send an absentee donation. In the end stubbornness won out, Nesta not wanting to be a slave to cages of her mind. 

She scanned the room, easily locating her friends. She plastered a friendly smile on her face, her mask for the evening, and greeted each of them with a hug. She added a quick peck of the cheek for Feyre and Elain; a brief thanks for the comfort they unwittingly provided her.

“I didn’t get one of those,” Cassian pouted playfully. 

She scowled at him. “Don’t be that guy, Cassian.”

He threw his head back, barking a laugh as he tossed an arm over her shoulders.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart. How’s it going? I haven’t seen you in a while,” he commented. 

“Oh, you know. Living the dream,” she deadpanned, as she accepted a glass of wine from Elain. 

Cassian watched her as she took a sip, waiting until she finished to reciprocate.

“That’s basically code for ‘put me out of my misery’,” he laughed, taking a sip out of his own glass with a smirk still on his face. 

“Take it how you will,” she snarked. She doubted he realized how little she was joking at the moment, especially given the mask of a smile that still donned her face. 

Hoping to eliminate any additional questions about herself, she decided to go on the offensive, shifting attention to Cassian instead. 

“And how are you? Still climbing ranks in the military like it’s going out of style?” she teased.

He smiled, but before he could respond, Nesta was being pulled away by her youngest sister. 

“Sorry, Cass. I need Nesta at the moment. We’ll catch you later,” Feyre announced. 

The abrupt shift in attention, combined with the sudden change of pace as Feyre dragged Nesta behind her, was enough to crack the thin veneer she’d constructed around herself for the evening. She felt ambushed, her head suddenly swimming in an attempt to reorient herself. 

Recovery didn’t completely forsake her, thank the Mother. She took some deep breaths, scanned her surroundings, and started processing the potential scenarios she may encounter to center herself.

“I hate to pull you around, but there are some people here who’ve asked to meet you. They met Elain at the last event and were disappointed to miss you. They’re regulars at our events and are usually pretty generous donors,” Feyre explained. 

“No problem,” Nesta responded, hoping it didn’t sound as robotic as it felt. Feyre walked her through the crowd, ending up at a small, circular table. Rhysand was seated with the others, they all stood as the women approached. He introduced the two men as Helion and Kallias, both of whom were notable politicians in Prythian. 

The stunningly handsome man, Helion, extended his hand to her.

“And you must be Nesta Archeron,” he stated.

“The very one,” she said coyly, earning a chuckle from both of the men. 

They spoke for a few minutes, mainly pleasantries and small talk. They were great conversationalists, but most would assume so being that they had pursued a career in politics. Nesta remained engaged with the men and was charming during their exchange, earning a look of thanks and admiration from her baby sister. 

During the course of their meeting, several of the event’s attendees bumped into Nesta as they walked past. It was of no fault of their own— the venue was far more packed than Feyre had projected. Space was limited, and people were doing their best to make it from one area to the next with the least resistance. 

Regardless of their pure intentions, Nesta was having to extend maximum effort into keeping herself even. The first two hadn’t rattled her much, but once the third knocked past her, she started to feel the walls closing in. She held her mask resolutely in place, but her tank was emptying rapidly, punctured by the repeated intrusions to her personal space. 

The curse of the “little things” was rearing its ugly head, and Nesta grew increasingly frustrated with herself at not being able to shake it off. On another day, she may have done it successfully, but a day like today had her at a disadvantage before she’d shown up. She acknowledged the irony of berating herself and how it perpetuated her spiral, but it was happening without her permission.

Suddenly, all of her senses were at max, as if each of them were a channel on a mixing board and someone had accidentally bumped each fader all the way up. Every scrape of a chair as people stood rattled through her brain, their chatter akin to the blaring static of an old television. The low lights were still too bright. The butterflies in her stomach were exacerbated by the smells of the various foods surrounding her, leaving her unsettled and nauseated.

She knew all too well how her panic gripped her, assaulting her senses before attacking her vital functions. She felt sweat start to pour down her back and behind her knees. She needed to be anywhere but here, but she didn’t trust herself to drive. Mere seconds separated what was a pleasant interaction from a full-scale meltdown and embarrassing situation to explain for her sister. 

Luckily, attentions weren’t on her at the moment. She was currently a spectator in the conversation, and she thanked the gods for that. Fighting the vacant stare that was forcing itself onto her face was starting to become a lost cause, and she scrambled to find a way out of the conversation gracefully. She’d figure out what to do with herself after managing that. 

Her hands were shaking, and her lack of an escape plan was only intensifying her reactions. She started to fidget with her wine glass to hide her trembling, staring down into it as a focal point. Her neck was taut as a bowstring, her shoulders engaged and perched higher than they naturally were. She blinked downward as her throat started to tighten, and she begged any god that was listening to allow for a lull in this conversation so that she may excuse herself. She felt trapped, claustrophobic, and she felt her breaths becoming more and more shallow. 

She startled slightly when she felt a large, steadying hand on her lower back. 

“Could I borrow you for a second?” Cassian’s face peered down at her, brow furrowed with an emotion Nesta didn’t have the energy to dissect. 

She managed a tight nod, not trusting her own voice if she were to try and use it. 

“Sorry to interrupt, fellas. I need to borrow Ms. Archeron for a few minutes,” Cassian explained for her. There was something so warm and laid back about his demeanor, and Nesta envied him for it.

She placed her glass on the table as he hooked his first two fingers with her own. She looked up at him, and he nodded his head as a silent order to follow him. Using his large frame to his advantage, he moved them quickly through the crowd, taking a sharp left into the hallway once they exited the event room. She was barely aware of the quick pace of their footfalls or the way Cassian’s head was turning left to right, scanning for something unknown to her.

He tried a door marked “Storage” and loosed a breath when it was unlocked. He ushered her inside, and she went obediently, thankful to be out of her prior circumstances if nothing else. The closet was small, but clean, with only a stack of chairs on the far left wall. Cassian shut the door behind them, bathing them in darkness, as he shrugged off his sport jacket and draped it around her. 

“Sit,” he ordered, as he pushed gently on her shoulders. 

Her breaths were shallow and labored now, her chest tight with the need for oxygen. Tears pricked her eyes, and a shaky breath forced its way out of her. She sat on the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and gripping them as if they were her tether to this world. Realizing she wore Cassian’s jacket, she opened it up and wrapped it around her legs as she lowered her forehead to her knees.

In the minimal light that entered the closet through the seams around the door, Nesta saw him shift next to her and lower himself to sit in an identical position to her own. If she were in a better headspace, she may have chuckled at the thought of him contorting his long body to fit in this closet with her.

He didn’t say a word, just sat next to her with their shoulders and upper arms flush. She heard him take a deep, exaggerated breath and exhale. When he repeated it twice, she realized it for the prompt it was. She did her best to match her breath to his, using the feel of his shoulders as a guide, but hers were still unsteady and too brief. Undeterred by her lack of initial success, he continued his breathing in the same manner, and she found her own getting longer. Even if it was only by milliseconds. 

After a few rounds, Nesta grew frustrated that her own were still a far cry from his, and she let out a short whimper of impatience. Tears rolled down her face as she lost her rhythm again, and she released a choked sob at her incompetence. One of her hands slid to her chest, as if she could use brute force to get air into her lungs somehow. Every muscle in her body was rigid, and she was overwhelmed with the widespread burning and discomfort the rigidity caused.

“Shh,” he whispered soothingly. “Try again, Nes. With me.” He breathed again for her. 

She resumed her attempt, finding herself somewhat more successful this time. It was enough to keep her going, and after a couple of minutes, her breaths were nearing her normal rate. Her head was still swimming, searching for any and all reasons for this panic attack, but she was coming up short. 

Gratitude worked its way into her brain for this dark, quiet room. If it weren’t for that, she would likely be a blubbering mess in the center of that event at this very moment. Best case scenario, she would be hyperventilating in a public bathroom stall, which seemed even worse somehow. 

Cassian tentatively placed his hand on Nesta’s thigh, as close to her knee as he could get to make his intentions clear. She leaned her weight into him and shifted her head to rest on his shoulder, hoping he could anchor her to this reality as she kept trying to push air into her uncooperative lungs. Her shoulders sagged slightly, showing potential that her body may very well relax from this, no matter how bleak it seemed. He rested his temple on the top of her head, and applied firm pressure to her thigh with his hand in a gesture of comfort. 

“Tell me five things you can see,” he murmured quietly.

“It’s dark,” she rasped pathetically. He was attempting to help ground her; she recognized the strategy from her time in therapy. She wasn’t feeling like participating, already exhausted. 

He huffed a laugh through his nose, offering another squeeze to her thigh to show his lack of malice. 

“There’s some light coming in around the door. Try,” he coaxed.

She was quiet for a minute, scanning as far as she could with only her eyes so that she didn’t have to move her head. 

“A door. My feet. Your feet. My knees. The door knob.”

“Four things you can touch.”

“My shirt. Your shoulder. Your jacket. My dress pants.”

“Perfect. Now, three things you can hear,” he continued. 

“Your voice. Your breathing. People talking down the hall,” she replied weakly. 

“Two things you can smell,” he encouraged. 

“Your jacket smells like sandalwood. And you smell like soap.”

“Last thing— one thing you can taste.”

“The wine,” she finished, her eyes closed.

She finally got a solid, deep breath into her lungs. Her mind was still a tangled mess, but at least one of her basic means of survival was being met. They sat there in silence, huddled together in the small closet as if the world outside of the door didn’t exist at all. 

“Thank you,” she squeaked out, another tear rolling down her cheek. Feeling accepted and understood wasn’t something she was used to, and the full extent of it made her emotional. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispered. 

A few quiet seconds passed them by, only the hushed sounds of their breaths in the small closet. 

“How did you know?” she whispered back.

He turned his head so that he could tuck his cheek into her hair before he spoke, his warm breath fanning across her forehead. 

“I’ve been there a bunch since I came back from my last deployment. You looked like you needed a bail out. There have been times I would have given a kidney for someone to help me,” he explained softly. 

She squeezed her eyes tighter, relating to his pain all too strongly in this moment. It was hard for her to reconcile what he was telling her with the Cassian she was so used to interacting with, but she supposed that’s what a successful mask is meant to do. 

“Well, I owe you one. Really,” she said. “It’s so hard for me to picture you feeling this way, but if and when it happens, I’ll be there.”

He adjusted, bringing his arm up and around her shoulders. To her disappointment, she had to lift her head from his shoulder as he did so, but he made up for it by tugging her tightly into his side. She rested her forehead on his neck, his cheek returning to its position atop her head. 

“I appreciate it, Nes.”

The pair sat in comfortable silence for several moments, Cassian’s heartbeat soothing Nesta back to baseline. She was finally thinking clearly enough to realize the oddity of their situation. They were friends, hardly the closest of their bunch, but it somehow made perfect sense that it was Cassian here with her. The intimacy of what they shared together in that closet was something she’d yet to share with another friend, partner, and even her sisters to this degree. There was a definite shift happening in their friendship; almost like she gained an official ally. 

“The closet was a good call. I may keep that in my back pocket for later,” she half-joked. 

He chuckled quietly in the dark, squeezing her shoulder slightly. “Feel free. It’s a good one. It was a total accident that I discovered it, but it’s my go-to.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, turning to look at him despite the darkness that surrounded them. She could only make out his profile from the light slipping in, but she focused her attention that way.

“Seriously, Cass. Thank you. I’m terrible at asking for help.”He turned toward her, his arm never leaving her shoulders. 

“You don’t need to thank me anymore. Care for a drive home?” he offered.

She nodded subtly, absolutely exhausted by the toll taken on her entire body. 

“Stay here. I’ll go scope out the best escape route,” he joked, as he stood up and dusted off the back of his khakis. 

She curled into herself again, missing the grounding weight of his arm around her. Cassian opened the door, squinting against the light and slipping into the corridor. 

“Be right back,” he assured her, shutting the door behind him. 

Nesta stared ahead, processing everything that had just happened through a clear mind. She pulled Cassian’s jacket tight around her body and settled back against the wall, ready to bask in the peace and quiet. 


End file.
